Writing the threads of my reality

There are many wonderful things about Ireland. This is a land of rolling green fields, ancient history, friendly people. It's a country where people can be so passionate, so giving, that you could almost believe it to be a second Eden. It has music and art in its soul, fire in its blood, love in its hand.

This is my Ireland. This is my home and my heart. This is the place my ancestors died for. And it is not for me any more.

I have no faith left in the government. I have long since lost faith in the Church. Everywhere I look, people are either being ruined by the incompetance or malice of others, or they are the ones wreaking the destruction. And no one seems willing to try to mend, rebuild, sacrifice, and finally lift us all out of this abyss of despair. We have no Barack Obama here to give us back our hope for a better future.

I've nothing left to look to here except a long spiral of corruption and decay, where there is one rule for the people, another for the cronies in power, and yet another for those who are rich or influential. The most recent scandal of Willie O' Dea is just another in a long line of scandals, all of which show that the government only cares for power and wealth, and the church only cares for its own - and the people of Ireland are only there to be used, abused, ordered about as needed, and ignored otherwise.

Almost a hundred years ago, the Republic won its independence from Britain. Since then it seems we have simply rolled over and accepted whatever injustice is inflicted on us by the politicians we elect. I would have hoped that the reports of the truly horrific clerical child abuse would finally have made a difference, but now, not even a year later, they are forgotten. There was no outcry. There was only mute, indifferent, despicable acceptance.

There was a rape trial in Kilkenny. A man convicted of dragging a drugged woman behind a dumpster and raping her. Video footage of the act. An undeniable, inhumane act.

The woman was made a pariah for daring to speak. A priest, and fifty supporters, walked into the courtroom and shook the rapist's hand.

I will not forget these things, and so I have made my choice.

Ireland is beyond redemption. I will not stay here and subject myself to this any further. I will not allow my children to grow up here, and let them be tainted by what my country is becoming. I am not even thirty years old, and all that I have seen in my life tells me that Ireland is not fit to govern itself, and it is not worthy of my citizenship. Like so many others, I am leaving, and I don't mean to return.

And yet! The pain of being torn from my country is almost too much to bear. It is the hardest choice to make, to leave one's friends, family, all that you know, and all for the sake of hope. That's all it boils down to, really. I have no hope, here. I might have hope elsewhere. Consider, for a moment, how far a person must be pushed before they will choose a vague hope over the entire life they have built for themselves and those they love.

Again, I wanted this blog to be about writing. I wanted it to be about form, and prose, and art - simple, safe things. But this... this is too tightly woven into my own life to ignore, and I cannot be a taleweaver without also being human.